Fear
by VickyVicarious
Summary: Basta may hate Dustfinger, but Dustfinger's just scared. Sequel to "Hate". Slash.


Okay, so this holds the title of SECOND Inkheart slash fanfic out there. Come on guys, don't make me do this alone! As I said, this is a sequel to _Hate_, and it's Dustfinger's side of the story. I'm considering writing a third one that picks up where I've left off in here, and actually contains slashy action as opposed to merely slashy thoughts, but... We'll see. Anyway, here it is!

Oh yeah, just to clarify... Both this and _Hate_ are after _Inkheart_ but before _Inkspell_, and possibly working on the assumption that Farid stayed with Meggie. Not sure; it hasn't been an issue yet. Anyway, they randomly meet up and somehow Basta saves an unconcious Dustfinger's life, taking him to some dank little hut. There's your backstory.

* * *

He was afraid of him.

Everyone knew that, just like they knew that he was the best fire-eater yet to walk the earth and that he was friends with the fairies. And it was true.

Dustfinger was utterly terrified of Basta, petrified, and nothing could change that. No matter how many times he outwitted him, no matter that he had gotten the opportunity to kill him several times, no matter that he'd _won_ in the end, Dustfinger was still terrified of Basta. And he knew he always would be.

He knew it deep in the pit of his stomach, where memories churned, nauseating him late at night. They made him stand and light a fire; play with it between his fingers, and whisper to it as though it could hear him in this silent world, because the fire was his only protection against Basta. With it, he could make Basta fear _him._

But the problem was, it never lasted, because Basta hated him, hated him more than he'd ever feared him, and Dustfinger was a coward and it was the other way around. He would never be able to truly defeat Basta and both of them knew it, and it only made Dustfinger more afraid.

It wasn't just his skill with a knife, although that terrified Dustfinger plenty. It was more. It was Basta _himself_. His long dark hair; his feral grin; his cat's prowl; his disconcertingly soft black eyes; his hands, covered in small scars countless slips when learning to wield his trade, much like Dustfinger's own; his chuckle, cold and soothing at the same time; his low purring voice, threatening in Dustfinger's ear; his mint breath.

And Dustfinger was scared of other things too, things that no one else saw. Things like Basta's jealousy of him, the way he'd always wanted Dustfinger's women. Things like the way Basta's eyes shone when he was pinning Dustfinger to a wall, trailing a knife along his neck. Things like the way he watched Dustfinger endlessly. Things like how, even though he was afraid of fire, he was fascinated when Dustfinger did his tricks. Things like the way he sometimes ran his eyes up and down Dustfinger's torso and smirked to himself.

Those scared Dustfinger too.

But what scared Dustfinger the most was the way he sometimes felt drawn to all of that, despite Basta being a fire-raiser and a murderer and a horrible, horrible man. Despite Basta's hatred of him.

Dustfinger was _drawn_ to him. He couldn't resist it sometimes, and even though to be in the other man's presence killed him with fear, being out of it killed him with longing sometimes. It was horrible and he could hardly stand it – he didn't _understand_ it!

But it was there.

And perhaps that was the worst thing of all, the way Dustfinger didn't quite mind the glances, and how some part of him enjoyed being threatened, pinned by Basta. Yes, perhaps that _was_ worst of all, because he might fascinate Basta, but Dustfinger knew Basta still hated him and he would never return this… longing.

And if he ever knew, it would kill Dustfinger. _He_ would kill Dustfinger.

So Dustfinger's heart beat faster whenever he saw the other man, and he had to fight the urge to run, because Basta terrified him utterly and nothing would ever change that.

_Nothing_.

Which was why, when he woke in a damp, dark little hut, to see Basta leaning against the wall opposite him and watching him through narrowed eyes, he knew better than to hope – though _what_ he would hope for, Dustfinger had always been too cowardly to contemplate.

Because Basta just hated him, and he had probably saved his life to kill him personally, and he wanted Dustfinger's last sight to be _him_, and Dustfinger was horribly, horribly afraid of dying.

But not as afraid as he was of Basta.


End file.
